Can't remember to forget her
by isaytoodlepip
Summary: Lasting effects of a curse leave Snape fighting to remember, and to forget. Dark. Inspired by the movie Momento


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A/N: This draws inspiration from the movie _Momento_. Good times. Sorry if anyone out there was expecting new chapters from whatever stories you like to read of mine. I have writer's block when it comes to that, but I'll try to rectify the situation when I get through midterms and all that crap. And since I'm so fond of this piece, maybe I'll try expanding it, but as you can see, I have a bad habit of freezing up once people get interested, so maybe it's better not to get your hopes up? Well, please review anyway.

Severus Snape awoke, rolled over, felt the sheets beside him. Cold. Too cold. Where was she? Then, where was he? Pain. That's the last thing he could remember. Pain, and light. He was tired. He knew enough to close his eyes, turn his back, go to sleep.

Severus Snape awoke, rolled over, felt the sheets beside him. Cold. Too Cold. Where was she? Then, where was he?

Then he looked around and saw the parchment, framed and standing on his bedside table, charmed to tell him the time. To tell him how to live, at that minute, on that day. "It's 7:30. You're in Hogwarts. Get out of bed. Go to the bathroom. Take a shower. Beyond that, anything this says is pointless. You won't remember." This triggered the conditioning, the story he repeated to himself silently, the story that could never be taken away because he had worked so hard to remember it. Not even his little notes could change it. _I am Severus Snape. I was born in Hawkshead. I have this condition…_

Severus Snape stepped into the bathroom, kicked his pajama bottoms away from his feet, shrugged into the shower. Scratched into the tile was "If you smell the lavender, you've already washed your hair." He didn't understand. He just'd stepped in. Why did he smell lavender? _I am Severus Snape. I was born in Hawkshead. I have this condition…_

He reached for the soap, and saw the skull on his forearm. It was ugly, dark. He tried to scrub it off.

He reached for the soap, and saw the writing. It was his writing, the delicately antiseptic script that he had conditioned himself to trust. _Whatever this says is true_. He read the note he had written on his hand. "It won't come off, ever. You remember this." It was true. The mark was from a time before, when he could still learn. But when had he tried to wash it off?

He stepped out of the shower, approached the mirror, winced at the sight of his face. Scratched into the glass: "This is your face. You are older, even if you don't know it. Brush your teeth. If you can't find the toothpaste, you've already done it." Where was the toothpaste?

He started to dry himself, and to read the other notes on his body. They'd never wash off either. They were too useful, too permanent:

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She is gone.This one was repeated, on each wrist. On each thigh. On his abdomen, reversed so he could see it in the mirror. This one hurt to read, and he could tell that he had to read it every hour, it was so vital to him.

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Voldemort tortured and murdered my wife. This was across his chest, made him swell with fury, draw his hand into a fist, draw his arm back to punch the mirror. On his thumb: **Seven years bad luck**. Small, because he didn't want people to know? He looked to the right of the mirror, another parchment. "The students can't know. The teachers can't know. Albus shouldn't know, but you know he knows everything." He smiled at that, put his hand down, and kept reading his body.

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We killed him_. _ On his heart. This meant the most to him? This was new, still a faint red surrounding the black. He could remember a spell that would mark his body without pain. Why hadn't he used that? Maybe he had wanted to remember. But he didn't. He only felt the pain.

Severus Snape walked to his wardrobe, pulled out a set of black robes. _Who am I mourning for?_ Looked down. **She is gone**. 

There were dozens more, but they were now too blurry to be read.

Conditioning drew him back to the bed when he needed to pull on his shoes. He looked up and saw a framed parchment on his bedside table. "It's 8:13. There's a piece of parchment in your pocket. Read it."

"It's 8:14. Go to the Great Hall. Eat."

There were things that Severus Snape could remember. He knew who he was. He knew the halls of the school. He knew he was Potions master, Head of Slytherin. He knew that, no matter what year he woke up in, he had been in the middle of a war the day before. He had been battling Voldemort, for the first time, unmasked. He remembered pain. After that, he remembered nothing at all. He only knew what he had trained himself to know, and what they had coached him to remember. He had been brought back to the infirmary, alive but barely. He showed them that his memory had been affected. He told them he didn't know who he was, why he was fighting his former master. They reminded him of Ani, of his turn, of the war, of everything. Their words about the past were enough for him, but fifteen minutes later, he was confused again. Wasn't he on a field before? A bloody field, the bones of men snapping beneath his boots? His friends forgave the slip, told him again what had happened. Fifteen minutes later, he was confused again. He wanted to ask "Wasn't I on a field before?". But he knew enough of himself to hide it. The second war against Voldemort ended later that year, and by then Severus Snape was expert at hiding it. He had made an art of forgetting.

Severus Snape found himself staring at an empty plate. He looked around, saw he was in Hogwarts. _Wasn't I on a field before_? Then the conditioning: _I am Severus Snape. I was born in Hawkshead. I have this condition…_

"Excuse me, what time is it Minerva?" He knew these people. He knew he was a teacher. He looked up, glances at the Gryffindor table. Harry Potter. Why did he look so much older? But Severus was a quick thinker. He looked down at his hand. Another small note, another repetition: "We killed him."

It was 8:30. What day was it? He couldn't ask her that? Vague impressions of other days with this condition floated through his brain as he stood and left the hall, heading for the dungeons. Fake recognition if you think they need to see it. Because they don't know. 

He felt a piece of parchment in his pocket. He was walking down a hallway, where was he going? But then, where did he ever go when faced in this direction but down, to the dungeons? He took out the note. "It's 8:45. Class in fifteen minutes. Keep this in your hand."

He looked down, he had a paper in his hand. "It's 9:00. Look up." There were children, setting their ingredients in order, looking at him with expectation. He knew he was a teacher, just like he knew that the smell in the air was wormwood. He knew he loved that smell, and that once, in his youth, he had been addicted to it. He looked down at the parchment again. It had been enchanted once, in a moment of inspiration and clarity, to tell him everything he needed to know. Of course, he couldn't remember the charm he had used. Must have been something from a newer book. At that moment, it was flashing a potion's name, one he knew by heart. He didn't need to be reminded of the ingredients, but a note on the parchment did help: "Write the ingredients, and the directions, on the board. If a student asks you something, you may not know how to answer if you don't look at the board. Look at Potter. You'll need to yell." He smiled at that. He remembered his sense of humor. He looked up, made fun of the boy, and turned to write the instructions on the board. Just as he finished, he saw, scratched into the slate: "Tell them to begin. Then look in the desk drawer. Read the papers in the red folder. Keep that parchment in your pocket." He did as he told himself to do.

Severus Snape only read books he knew the end to. He only read things that he knew so well that it wouldn't matter if he forgot what had been said the paragraph before. So he read the file. He noticed things repeated every page. These were things that must be important for this day, this year. They related to new students, the names of the promising ones that needed to be humbled, the hopeless ones that needed to be ridiculed, the special ones that were trapped in between. Other sections were tales of the war. He, Harry Potter, and Albus Dumbledore killed Voldemort? Good for them. Good for him. Other sections were updates on the two years since the incident. "You are friends with Remus Lupin." _Maybe I should write that on my body, I'll never remember_. He could guess that because he could recall no truce, he had made a mistake at some point, feigned pleasantness because the werewolf was always so nice to him that he thought it should be his natural response to reciprocate. That one mistake must have done it, and must have been repeated often enough that Severus couldn't take it back now. Still other sections in the file were current events. "This is Potter's seventh year. He graduates in four months. Arthur Weasley is the Minister of Magic now. Sirius Black works here." _Maybe I should write that on my body, I'll never remember._

Severus Snape was walking down a hallway. He felt something on his wrist. Must have taken to wearing a watch. It itched. Was he used to this? He moved the band, saw "She's gone." He frowned at that. Repeated to himself his conditioned story. But why had he written this on his wrist? He'd known of her fate for so long, how could he have ever forgotten? But maybe he needed to tell himself this everyday, to come to terms with it, or to remember to forget her, and now that he could make no new memories, he couldn't remind himself as often as he needed to. She's gone. _That's why Dumbledore took me back. That's why I wear black. That's why I hate Harry Potter. I don't care about the werewolf and Black and James. I only care that people cared more about the news that Harry Potter had been born than they did about Ani being tortured and murdered. I only care that, while my heart was dying, that boy had the nerve to feel life, feel sunshine, feel the love of those who cared about them, when Ani, and I, could never feel that again. Where am I going?_

Severus Snape was walking down a hallway. He knew he was going home, to sleep. He had a parchment in his hand. He looked down. "You wanted to tattoo something about your friendship with Lupin, but I don't think you should. These things can change, and besides, you probably don't really feel it. You need to replace the toothpaste in your bathroom. The single serving tubes are kept in your wardrobe, bottom drawer. Goodnight, Severus. I wish you could remember this. Please remember this. That side of the bed will always be cold when you roll over in the morning. Look at your wrist." Severus Snape looked at his wrist. "She's gone."


End file.
